Knowing Is Not Always A Blessing
by poi922
Summary: Carter's instincts are firing on all cylinders in this case. But for the first time ever in her career with the NYPD, she wishes she hadn't found that final piece to a puzzle. NOTE: Canon. POV Carter. Character Study. Takes place during Many Happy Returns. Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. Such a Pity.


My first attempt to write a Carter centric story…and finding it more difficult than writing Finch or Reese. Don't know why, except that she is still evolving in the series. Hope I did justice to her character…

* * *

"_You know about a case in New Rochelle?"_

She watches carefully for his 'tell', though he broadcasts it so clearly even an amateur wouldn't have missed it. It was that obvious.

Finch had not been on her radar long; she knew very little about him. In truth, nothing about him. Every data avenue available to her she had used to dig up information on the elusive little man and all had come to a dead end.

The man simply didn't exist, or at least the 'real' person didn't exist outside of a long list of aliases. Finch is an incomplete puzzle in his own right.

She has known about the little man only since that "incident" with the CIA, an episode that still invades her worst dreams.

"_I know where he's going to be…"_  
Too clearly she sees herself on the rooftop-parking area, the man she had been hunting for months…her tall, dark-haired 'man in a suit…suddenly crumpling under the impact of bullets drumming into his body.

Then follows the stealthy trip down the stairwell, tracking a trail of blood and labored breathing. Bursting out the stairwell door in time to see her man desperately reach for his partner as she trains her gun on them both.

It is an event that rivals the nightmares she'd loaded with her baggage out of Afghanistan. Not a souvenir she wants to keep, but something that seems to keep her.

Discovering that she had been played by those CIA agents brought back painful memories and is perhaps a big part of the reason she accepted a provisional role as an agent of aid to the two Samaritans. She interacts with them, works with them, but her picture of them is incomplete; there are too many pieces missing.  
So as a rational, she doesn't care to exam too closely the reason for her continuing support.

"_I'll take that as a yes…" _

The fastidious little man with the classy wardrobe and high dollar vocabulary now sits in front of her and all but screams his implication in the FBI's cold case. Not much of a surprise. The moment she'd been given the identity of the DNA at that crime scene, she knew this man was somehow involved.  
Except she had thought he would be more circumspect about revealing it.

She is sure her question has taken him by surprise, and it baffles her that he doesn't seem very concerned she now has this information. His comment she become more involved by keeping an eye on Agent Donnelly is immediately revised when she shows indignation at this broad hint to obstruct a Federal investigation.

That she can't do. Won't do.

So what scheme is the little man plotting behind those glasses? Her limited experience with him has given her a healthy respect for his intellect and ability to manipulate events. After all, somehow he is able to control no-last-name John, a lethal killer whom she knows could easily destroy the fragile human sitting across the table from her.

They make an odd couple and she still hasn't figured out why, or how, they do what they do. But her curiosity has been piqued again. It's time to go to New Rochelle and start gathering some puzzle pieces.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

"_It doesn't sound like my guy's MO. He usually covers his tracks…"_

The photos are graphic, ugly, and unfortunately not anything she hasn't seen before. The blood splatters on the wall, the brown stains on the floor…these could have come from any crime scene in her own precinct. But they didn't.

This is a small town, and someone has wreaked havoc in this room, destroying a human being in what spoke to a state of absolute fury. Agent Donnelly has assumed from the apparent violence that the victim is dead, though there is no body to confirm that assumption.

The FBI Agent has moved on to the next step quickly: an interview the mother of the victim's deceased wife. It didn't take much more than his suggestion for her to join him in that visit; in this investigation she is feeling much like a piece of flotsam on a fast moving river. It will take her where it will take her, and she isn't resisting the ride.

After all, it is more than just her training moving her in this direction; it is her inherent drive to solve a mystery. A puzzle labeled 'man in a suit'.

"_Do you know if any of these spats went beyond words?"_

Years of experience interrogating people has taught her to choose words carefully. She truly feels sympathy for this broken woman on the settee in front of her. No parent should have to bury their child...and as a mother herself, her heart senses the pain inherent in this situation.

What would she do if something similar were to happen to her son? Not a hypothesis she even wants to contemplate…

But there is something not right here. Her instincts are firing on all cylinders, instincts that tell her this mother's visible grief is hiding some invisible secret, one which perhaps the woman herself can't acknowledge.

The accident reports, that conversation with the coroner, discussions with the local officers…things were not adding up correctly.

She just _knows_ there is far more to this case, and though all the pieces have been put before her, there was still a hole in this puzzle. Finch has the answers, but isn't talking…protecting his partner she suspects. But why? What is John's involvement in all this?

As a police officer however, there was only so much pushing she can do and if this woman is unable or unwilling to reveal anything further, then maybe it is time to talk to others. Neighbors perhaps, who might be able to settle the growing unease in her mind.

"_Do you have any pictures of this man?"_

Her heart skips a beat. Jessica Arnt had been seeing someone else before she got married…a soldier. Her mind flashes back to that day in the precinct when she had first confronted her 'man in a suit', only he had been camouflaged then in dirt and rags. "You don't learn to fight like that in the regular army", she had said, confident she recognized the traits of a special ops soldier. She'd certainly seen enough of them in her tour of duty.

And now cautiously keeping her request non-threatening, she asks for access to Jessica Arnt's personal possessions, achingly aware that the instincts she has relied on all her life, ones that have gotten her through horrifying situations in some unspeakable locations, have revved under full throttle.

"_I still have some of Jessica's things. You're welcome to look through them…"_

Permission given, she makes her way to the darkened garage and the small collection of boxes near the back wall. Going through the dusty containers is painful, even though she has no emotional connection to the dead girl. It's simply too reminiscent of other such cases, other lives shattered leaving only memories behind.

It's a journey through Jessica Arnt's life: a pillow, clothes, various mementos. A small ornamental tin… All pieces of a young girls innocence, a woman's existence. The jewelry box contains a broken watch, bits of ribbon, assorted rings. And in the bottom, hidden away, a photo.

'_There it is…there is the link'. _

She says the words, though not a sound passes her lips as she stares with suddenly moist eyes at the picture of a much younger, smiling John…with his girl, Jessica Arnt.

And for the first time ever in her career with the NYPD, she wishes she hadn't found that final piece to a puzzle.


End file.
